


All that counts is here and now

by DarkWaterFalls



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hand Jobs, Hockey, Las Vegas Aces, M/M, National Hockey League, Providence Falconers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWaterFalls/pseuds/DarkWaterFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of waiting, Alexei Mashkov finds his Sign and finds the first hint to his Moment.</p><p>He just never expected it to happen on NHL ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All that counts is here and now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheUnvanquishedZims](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnvanquishedZims/gifts).



> This is my fill for TheUnvanquishedZims!
> 
> A nice little soulmate AU with an, *ahem* happy ending.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

When Tater was younger, his mother used to stroke his hair and explain to him how his life was supposed to pan out. Not his job, not where he’d live, not anything concrete. Just his Moment.

 

“Oh, Lyosha. I don’t know how to explain the feeling, it’s so complete, and it’s everything you could ever dream of!” Mama Mashkova would say.

 

He’d fall asleep with her fingers in his hair, listening to the story of her Moment, how old she was when it happened, and how old she was when she got her first Sign. 

 

Tater knew that his parents met when they were young, that both his parents had been experiencing their Signs since they had been small children. Meeting your other half on the bus may not seem romantic, but the way his mother told it made it seem so. He memorised her description of the feeling, read countless books of the subject - both serious and romantic - but still experienced nothing.

 

As Tater grows older, the amount of time he spends with his mother becomes smaller and smaller. His mother doesn’t tell him stories like she used to, and Tater is now much too tall to have his hair stroked easily. But his mother still waits, waits for news of his Sign appearing. 

 

It isn’t until Tater is fifteen that he realises that something might be wrong. He realises that all of his friends have experienced their Sign, and half of them have already reached their Moment, have found their partner.

 

But he doesn’t give up hope. He’s happy, he has friends, he has hockey. He’s a good person, and not having a Sign or Moment would never change that, all it means to him is that he’s not in the right place yet.

 

He’ll get there, he knows he will.

 

\---

 

He’s eligible for and entered into the NHL entry draft at eighteen. He dreams of going to Montreal, to meet other players, to start his career in the NHL.

 

But it doesn’t happen. He can’t get a visa, and without a visa he can’t get on the plane, and he can’t attend the draft if he can’t leave Russia.

 

So he sits and waits. He reads the scouting reports and the news articles that say he ranks in the top three European prospects, and has a good chance of going top five at the draft. But he’ll be experiencing it from the hard-backed chair in his parent’s living room, sitting beside the phone at 2am, just waiting.

 

\---

 

He lands in Providence two weeks later, dazed and confused, jetlagged and hungry, but  _ so ready _ for the prospect camp that is happening in three days.

 

He feels jittery and hyperaware, looking at signs with their unfamiliar colours and place names, completely aware of the fact that – despite previously being the best in his class - his English is still woefully inadequate when faced with the challenge of America.

 

He’s met by Lindy and Nin, two of the Falconers defensemen, at the airport. Nin is taller than him by half a head, and Lindy is grinning, waving at him as he exits arrivals with his bags. They’re holding a large hand-painted sign that says “Alexei” in yellow, surrounded by stars. A Swede and a Finn, they can manage a half decent conversation in Russian between them, and are there to make sure he settles in well.

 

“Like sign?” Lindy asks in halting Russian, smiling widely. “Daughter made it!”

 

Alexei decides to respond in English, “Is good!”

 

Nin smiles and asks in English, “Do you prefer to speak English?”

 

Alexei mentally translates this, then says carefully, haltingly, “Is bad for both. English bad for me, Russian bad for you. I try?”

 

Lindy nods and says in Russian, “We’ll all try.”

 

\---

 

Nin and Lindy force him into bed that night, after he’s eaten enough for three at dinner. He wants to head to the rink, to get started, to start learning straight away, and to work out some of the restlessness that has settled into his bones over the last few weeks. But the moment his head hits the pillow, all that melts away, and he sleeps solidly and doesn’t wake until Nin shakes his shoulder to get him up for breakfast, to get ready to head to the Falconers’ arena.

 

Lindy and Nin are talking in the front seat in English, and he keeps just catching snatches of words and phrases, names jumping out at him regularly as he watches Providence whizz by. “Zimmermann” is one he knows, and his ears keep pricking up at the name “Parson” too, and the words “hospital” and “doctor”, before he’s pulled back into the moment by the name “Parson”.

 

He feels strange, watching other cars pass them by, but guesses it’s just the fatigue setting in again. He’s been up for an hour after sleeping for twelve, and his heart has been beating fit to burst since they got in the car. He thinks it must be the coffee he’s had, but his mouth is dry and his lungs feel too full each time he breathes in. He takes a gulp from the bottle of Gatorade he’s been given, and tries to get himself under control.

 

Before he knows it, they’re at the rink. He’s being introduced to the owners, staff, anyone else who’s around. They all want to meet the fourth overall pick, the new face of the franchise. His tongue feels too big for his mouth as he tumbles his way through greetings, his kit bag strap cutting into his shoulder, and he’s sure that he won’t remember anyone’s names afterwards.

 

But then it’s a quick succession of locker room-bench-gear bag and then (finally) ice.

 

He feels like he can barely breathe, he only got through dressing through sheer force of will, muscle memory putting his skates on more than any active effort on his part. His hands are shaking, nerves tingling and mind spinning.

 

But that’s all blown away by the first time both of his blades are on the ice. 

 

Before he knows it, he’s on his knees, the ice smooth under his gloved palms, and breathing hard as his skin flares with heat and his lungs burn with the effort to breathe harder.

 

And then it’s gone.

 

Well, not gone really.

 

Just present, licking at the edge of his consciousness, making him hyperaware and excited.

 

He’s found his Sign, his Sign is the NHL ice.

 

He just had to travel here to find that out.

 

\---

 

Tater misses the Aces’ first visit to Providence, having broken his wrist in one of the preseason games against Boston.

 

He hasn’t even scored his first official NHL goal, just three in the preseason, so he can easily explain away the feeling of upset as he watches Kent Parson tear a hole through the Falcs’ defences and score his second of the game.

 

He tells himself that he shouldn’t be envious, that he’ll have his chance, and that the ice will still be right where he left it once his wrist has recovered.

 

But he’s perched on a stool in the press box, he can’t feel his Sign up here, so far away. And he so, so wants to feel the tingle on the edge of his nerves, the sweet pressure in his head, the Sign that someone is waiting. He wants to feel that again.

 

\---

 

Tater is always first onto the ice after the goalie, and thankfully the rest of the team agree to it, ignoring any previous tradition in the wake of Tater’s accomplishments and the way he always initially reacts when he sets his skates on the ice. He always needs as much time as possible to compensate for the weight of his Sign.

 

But here, in Las Vegas, during warm ups… he’s never felt it this heavily.

 

He’s attempting to focus on his stick work, but he can feel his Sign pulsing at the back of his head, beating along with the pulse of his heart, the cadence of his breath. It’s never been this bad before, so loud in his ears, so incredibly close in his chest.

 

Marty’s keeping an eye on him, comes over during warm ups to nudge at him silently.

 

Tater can almost hear the serious-but-unspoken worry.

 

Tater waves him away. “I be fine,” he insists. “Just never this strong before.”

 

He’s fine by the time the game rolls around, by the time that the word rolls down the bench that Parse isn’t playing because of the Aces’ imminent playoff run.

 

Tater can now breathe, but he is so much more irritated by the fact that the Aces aren’t taking them seriously.

 

So he goes out and gets a hat trick instead.

 

\---

 

The Aces visit the Falcs early the next season, and Tater is on the ice early at practice that morning. Ottie the back-up goalie took one look at him in the dressing room, tightened his pads, and quickly followed him out onto the ice.

 

Once they’ve both warmed up - Tater by firing at least half a dozen pucks past Ottie, Ottie by saving at least four times that in shots – they both skate back to the bench and drink from the water bottles left there by the equipment staff.

 

Ottie fiddles with the top of his bottle, before asking in Russian, “What’s up, potato?”

 

Tater is never sure how much Russian Ottie knows, but he answers in kind because it is always a lot easier to articulate his feelings in his mother tongue, even if Ottie doesn’t really understand. “The ice feels different, and I don’t mean under my skates. It’s… making me feel more unsettled than usual, I’ve got an edge in my stomach that isn’t being helped by the ice, my fingers feel swollen and stuck around my stick, but they’re too restless to do anything else but practice… my skin feels like it’s on fire, but I know I’ll catch a chill if I take off any more layers.”

 

Ottie nods, then says, “You need a shower, and to get through this game.”

 

Tater stares at Ottie and asks, “Do you even understand Russian, or are you just humouring me?”

 

Ottie takes another swig of water, smiling, before answering, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

\---

 

It’s only the fifth shift of the night, and the second time Tater has been out. He’s sweating uncomfortably under his helmet, and his gloves feel like they’re too small for his hands, he’s itching to be back to the bench, to get them off.

 

Guy is facing off against Delacour, and the ref has failed to drop the puck twice now. The shouts of the fans complaining about the delay mingle with the shrill whistle of the referee as both of the centres are thrown from the circle.

 

Tater is signalled in, along with Parson, and Tater can feel his whole body trembling, his skin is still on fire, and his body feels like it’s trying to reach out, reach forward, get itself closer to the ice. Tater sets his feet and leans forward, trying to see if breathing in the cold air as deeply as he can relieves some of the pressure in his lungs.

 

Routine, routine.

 

He needs routine to get through this, through the distraction.

 

So he does his face off checks. Looks at his feet, corrects his stance, looks at the ref, looks at the puck in the ref’s hand, then looks at Parson across the circle.

 

And then all is lost.

 

\---

 

Marty stands up and grabs for the linesman the first moment he can, the moment he realises what’s happened from his position on the bench.

 

He has a fist clenched in the linesman’s striped jersey and, over the roar of the crowd in the arena, screams, “MOMENT,” into the man’s ear as loud as he can.

 

The man’s look of shock says it all, before he skates off to inform the other referees.

 

“Ottie!” Marty shouts along the bench to the back-up goalie, “Get the gate open, and get them to clear the locker room and private room!”

 

He then jumps the boards, sans helmet and gloves, before heading to the scrum on the ice, to help the refs extract Tater and Parse.

 

\---

 

Tater can barely remember how they got here, he doesn’t think he can hear anymore, he can barely see, but he is so aware of the skin laid out underneath his lips, the pounding of his heart, and the joy surging through his veins.

 

He knows that they’re not on the ice any more, he knows that the room is relatively silent, can feel the mattress under him. He knows that he’s managed to kick his skates off, and he knows that he is ripping at the pads on the shoulders of Parson, of  _ Kent, of Kent! _

 

He can now hear the sharp breaths of his partner, feel the bruised state of his lips, the weight of having Kent thrown across his lap, pressing closer, closer, but still not close enough. They still have too many layers between them, but he can barely form a sentence to voice that idea as Kent sucks a bruise under his jaw and grinds down into his lap.

 

Kent’s fingers make quick work of Tater’s pads, throwing them to the side just as Tater finds and tugs at the velcro on Kent’s, releasing them and freeing them to fall to the floor behind him. Then they’re both tugging at shirts, aching to get at the skin underneath, nails biting at bare skin and groans building as they press closer to kiss again, to breathe the same air, to inhabit the same skin.

 

Tater gets a hand free first, squirms it between them to tug at the strings on Kent’s hockey pants, loosening them enough to shove a hand down, past padding and protection to grip at his cock, hard and heavy in his hand.

 

He feels like he barely knows what he’s doing, he has little room to move, to manoeuvre, but Kent seems to be enjoying it, moaning low and choked as he tries to press himself closer to Tater, push himself further into Tater’s hand, and grips at shoulders in a futile attempts to hold on against the sensation.

 

Kent’s muscles are taut, he’s slick and moaning as he tries to thrust in time with the movement of Tater’s hand. All it takes is the flick of a wrist, the slide of a thumb under the head and over the slit and Kent’s throwing his head back, moaning as Tater scrapes his teeth against his pulse point. 

 

Tater feels overwhelmed, gasping as the sensation reverberates back into him. He can feel it sink down his spine, the stickiness and warmth between them, the settling of the bond in his chest, before he’s coming as well, unexpectedly and overwhelming.

 

Kent can obviously tell, shuddering through his own aftershocks, his own bond settling, he knows what has happened between them. He’s absently petting Tater’s chest, the soaked skin tacky, as Tater raises his hand and pushes Kent’s messy blond hair from his face.

 

Kent smirks, bright and smug, despite the heaving of his chest and the flush across his cheeks. “You up for round two soon then?” he asks.

  
  
  



End file.
